


Baking Siriusly

by nagemeikenu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Drabble, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagemeikenu/pseuds/nagemeikenu
Summary: Remus wants to bake something rather special for Sirius--can he manage to get it right?





	1. Chapter 1

Remus ran his tongue around his teeth as he studied the recipe he’d finally found. Somehow, he felt he’d expected a lot less instructions—certainly more simply worded…

What on earth was he thinking? When it came back to him, he closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. Obviously, he’d been thinking of Sirius.

“You’ve been to Paris?” James’ voice was surprised.

“The noble house of Black has been everywhere,” Sirius had rolled his eyes with the smirk plastered across his face.

“Did you like the food?” wondered Peter, his usual fidgeting stopped while he peered up at Sirius.

“Yeah, it was decent. Couldn’t eat too much of it, though, bloody rich stuff.” Sirius shrugged.

“What about the pastries? Were they better there than here?” Peter pressed, as the subject was something he cared about passionately, “How about the cheese? Did you try any really smelly ones?”

“Pastries I quite recommend, actually,” Sirius jabbed a finger in the air, “they had something called financiers—really scrummy.”

“What’s that?” James’ brow furrowed.

“These almond cakes that were for bankers, I think—muggles.” Sirius tossed out a grin.

“That’s why you like them so much,” Remus grinned back.

“Mum was furious when she saw my stash for the trip home—worth it, though,” Sirius glanced back at Peter, “I did avoid the smelly cheeses—couldn’t see the point.”

“You could see the point of not trying them,” James surmised, “your mum hated that, didn’t she?”

Sirius shrugged, “I handled it.”

Peter, always sensitive to what Sirius liked to avoid, “what were the cakes called again? D’you think we’d find them here?”

Sirius enunciated, “Fi-nawn-see-airs, I think. Never seen them here, really. Shame.”

And he had looked so very disappointed, Remus had decided then and there he’d work out how to make them. It had taken the better part of two weeks to find a recipe for them through his mum, who’d been baffled but pleased that he wanted to bake something. His dad had asked why, and he’d been honest—it was for a friend who’d been having an awful summer holiday—but somehow his dad seemed to think otherwise.

‘Course, his dad thought he was straight. Remus blew out another breath and told himself to get a grip. If he was going to send them before Sirius went to the Potters, he had to get them made today. Part of him tried to whisper that he could likely get away with sending them tomorrow, but he’d wanted to be sure of getting them to Sirius and Sirius alone.

“Burr nwah-zet,” his mum had called it, “It’s cooked butter until it’s quite brown and smells nutty.”

It appeared he needed quite a bit of that, sugar, egg whites, a miniscule bit of salt (why? Didn’t the French consider this a sweet? If it’s just a pinch, what’s the bloody point?) and almond meal. Remus wondered what the hell almond meal was.

“Mum?” he called out.

“Yes dear?” she hurried in from the sitting room, “are you feeling alright? The moon comes in two days—”

“I’m alright, really,” he hastily assured her, “but what’s almond meal?”

“Oh,” he saw her shoulders shift down from her chin and face move into an amused smile, “it’s just ground almonds, love. They make a powder from it. We’ve got some, somewhere…”

“Right,” Remus said, “and if a recipe only needs egg whites…”

“I’ll put the yolks in a curd,” came her voice over jars being moved and set aside, “here we are.” A small jar with tan powder (it looked like sand to Remus, perhaps coarser) was set on the counter.

“What else do you need, dear?” Her hands settled on her waist as she looked at him expectantly.

“I…I want to do it myself…” he trailed off, because he knew if he didn’t get her help he’d be hopelessly lost.

“Then I’ll supervise and advise while you do it yourself,” she decided, “how’s that?”

His relieved sigh was yes enough, but he said “Thanks, mum.”

In the end, it looked like they’d baked muffins instead of fancy French cakes, but he bagged up the lot and sent them to Sirius. 

He hoped they could say the “I love you” that would never leave his lips.


	2. Reception

Sirius rolled his aching shoulders. He had been in a dreadful mood all day—and he knew it was because he was at the Black Manor instead of with Remus, preparing for the month’s full moon. When he got to the sanctuary of his room, he leaned against the door for a moment. As his eyes opened again, he spotted the Lupin owl teetering on the windowsill. The tiny thing had a large basket filled with…muffins? Plain muffins, it looked like. What the hell?

Out of curiosity, his fingers worked to undo the knot tying the clear wrap from the owl’s legs. The basket went to the bed, as well as a letter from Remus; Sirius liked to read those letters at night, by candlelight. It was foolish and ridiculous, but this way he could pretend they were love letters in a forbidden relationship. He could pretend that he and Remus had a chance at love, that he had a chance with Remus at all. For now, he set the letter on his desk. Turning towards the window, he gave the brown owl some water and food. With a small flutter and a grateful chirp, the owl was happily gobbling up Sirius’ offerings. Once he’d done that, he opened the wrap around the basket and then—the scent hit him.

_The wafting smell of almonds had made the decision for him—the rectangular cakes were plain but had a bit of icing drizzled on the tops with slivered almonds. All around him were people and breads and cakes and little puddings he didn’t understand. Chocolate and cream were spread and decorated everywhere, giving such sophisticated airs that Sirius wondered how they were made without magic. Little stars of cream, the gleam of the chocolate, and the airiness of each kind of pastry imaginable. With that were glazed fruits adorning tarts, cakes. How Muggles decided what to get, Sirius couldn’t fathom. He’d already been in the shop fifteen minutes. How did the Muggles not believe in magic when all this existed? Yet there by the door was a display of golden cakes with a white drizzle of something or other. He couldn’t tell from where he stood, so naturally walked closer; he brushed by three people trying to leave when he did, which rankled his nerves. Finally, he was closer and could see the drizzled white glaze and almond nuts scattered on the top. Maybe there were quite ordinary compared to everything else in the shop, but they looked just perfect for an afternoon treat. The French surrounded his ears from the other customers, the very small pops of color from the generally black and dark blue clothing and brighter colors from the fruits and icings dominated his vision, but these little cakes took all the unfamiliarity of Paris and made a new experience impossible to resist._

_He’d gotten two for that afternoon, wandering the busy Muggle Paris, and had enjoyed them even though the river was rank and Remus—and the other marauders were, too—was across the bloody Channel. There were bustling people, moving so quickly he’d barely comprehended the “Excusez-moi, monsieur” muttered at him before they were 10 meters away. All that energy in the city drained him—it had to be said: he wasn’t all that fond of Paris. London seemed much more sensible—and much farther away than ever as he walked the cobbled streets alone. He’d tried to remember that it was good to be alone at the moment—otherwise he’d be with his family. He made himself push that aside and turned his attention to the glossy white box the muggle baker had handed him. Through the clear top he could see the cakes he’d bought. They’d reminded him of Remus—quiet, unassuming, perhaps; and then you got close enough to see just how special they were. The cakes and Remus were things were so simple and steadying, the rest of his surroundings didn’t matter anymore. The baker called his treat ‘fi-nawn-see-ay’, and Sirius knew they were going to be the best part of Paris._

He had no choice but to take one in his hand and breathe it in. How did Remus…did he actually bake the things? When he bit into the cake, he could see the Seine as he had that afternoon; but for the lack of icing and nuts, these were precisely the same. Even as he thought of those precious hours in Paris, he thought of Remus. It seemed impossible to do anything else. Hell, the bugger had sent him financiers to cheer him up. He supposed that was his curse—he was doomed to love Remus John Lupin, a boy, a poor boy, and moreover, a werewolf. There was no one his parents would approve less.

As he polished off the first cake, he thought: there’s no one I’d chase more, for every single one of those reasons—and if it was especially because his parents couldn’t approve someone less, well. No one could fault him that.


End file.
